Two days later, about the middle of the forenoon, Duane dragged the
two horses up the last ascent of an exceedingly rough trail and found
himself on top of the Rim Rock, with a beautiful green valley at his
feet, the yellow, sluggish Rio Grande shining in the sun, and the great,
wild, mountainous barren of Mexico stretching to the south.
Duane had not fallen in with any travelers. He had taken the
likeliest-looking trail he had come across. Where it had led him he had
not the slightest idea, except that here was the river, and probably the
inclosed valley was the retreat of some famous outlaw.
No wonder outlaws were safe in that wild refuge! Duane had spent the
last two days climbing the roughest and most difficult trail he had ever
seen. From the looks of the descent he imagined the worst part of his
travel was yet to come. Not improbably it was two thousand feet down to
the river. The wedge-shaped valley, green with alfalfa and cottonwood,
and nestling down amid the bare walls of yellow rock, was a delight and
a relief to his tired eyes. Eager to get down to a level and to find a
place to rest, Duane began the descent.
The trail proved to be the kind that could not be descended slowly. He
kept dodging rocks which his horses loosed behind him. And in a short
time he reached the valley, entering at the apex of the wedge. A stream
of clear water tumbled out of the rocks here, and most of it ran into
irrigation-ditches. His horses drank thirstily. And he drank with that
fullness and gratefulness common to the desert traveler finding sweet
water. Then he mounted and rode down the valley wondering what would be
his reception.
The valley was much larger than it had appeared from the high elevation.
Well watered, green with grass and tree, and farmed evidently by good
hands, it gave Duane a considerable surprise. Horses and cattle were
everywhere. Every clump of cottonwoods surrounded a small adobe house.
Duane saw Mexicans working in the fields and horsemen going to and
fro. Presently he passed a house bigger than the others with a porch
attached. A woman, young and pretty he thought, watched him from a door.
No one else appeared to notice him.
Presently the trail widened into a road, and that into a kind of square
lined by a number of adobe and log buildings of rudest structure.
Within sight were horses, dogs, a couple of steers, Mexican women with
children, and white men, all of whom appeared to be doing nothing. His
advent created no interest until he rode up to the white men, who were
lolling in the shade of a house. This place evidently was a store and
saloon, and from the inside came a lazy hum of voices.
As Duane reined to a halt one of the loungers in the shade rose with a
loud exclamation:
“Bust me if thet ain't Luke's hoss!”
The others accorded their interest, if not assent, by rising to advance
toward Duane.
“How about it, Euchre? Ain't thet Luke's bay?” queried the first man.
“Plain as your nose,” replied the fellow called Euchre.
“There ain't no doubt about thet, then,” laughed another, “fer Bosomer's
nose is shore plain on the landscape.”
These men lined up before Duane, and as he coolly regarded them he
thought they could have been recognized anywhere as desperadoes. The
man called Bosomer, who had stepped forward, had a forbidding face which
showed yellow eyes, an enormous nose, and a skin the color of dust, with
a thatch of sandy hair.
“Stranger, who are you an' where in the hell did you git thet bay hoss?”
he demanded. His yellow eyes took in Stevens's horse, then the weapons
hung on the saddle, and finally turned their glinting, hard light upward
to Duane.
Duane did not like the tone in which he had been addressed, and he
remained silent. At least half his mind seemed busy with curious
interest in regard to something that leaped inside him and made his
breast feel tight. He recognized it as that strange emotion which had
shot through him often of late, and which had decided him to go out to
the meeting with Bain. Only now it was different, more powerful.
“Stranger, who are you?” asked another man, somewhat more civilly.
“My name's Duane,” replied Duane, curtly.
“An' how'd you come by the hoss?”
Duane answered briefly, and his words were followed by a short silence,
during which the men looked at him. Bosomer began to twist the ends of
his beard.
“Reckon he's dead, all right, or nobody'd hev his hoss an' guns,”
presently said Euchre.
“Mister Duane,” began Bosomer, in low, stinging tones, “I happen to be
Luke Stevens's side-pardner.”
Duane looked him over, from dusty, worn-out boots to his slouchy
sombrero. That look seemed to inflame Bosomer.
“An' I want the hoss an' them guns,” he shouted.
“You or anybody else can have them, for all I care. I just fetched them
in. But the pack is mine,” replied Duane. “And say, I befriended your
pard. If you can't use a civil tongue you'd better cinch it.”
“Civil? Haw, haw!” rejoined the outlaw. “I don't know you. How do we
know you didn't plug Stevens, an' stole his hoss, an' jest happened to
stumble down here?”
“You'll have to take my word, that's all,” replied Duane, sharply.
“I ain't takin' your word! Savvy thet? An' I was Luke's pard!”
With that Bosomer wheeled and, pushing his companions aside, he stamped
into the saloon, where his voice broke out in a roar.
Duane dismounted and threw his bridle.
“Stranger, Bosomer is shore hot-headed,” said the man Euchre. He did not
appear unfriendly, nor were the others hostile.
At this juncture several more outlaws crowded out of the door, and
the one in the lead was a tall man of stalwart physique. His manner
proclaimed him a leader. He had a long face, a flaming red beard, and
clear, cold blue eyes that fixed in close scrutiny upon Duane. He was
not a Texan; in truth, Duane did not recognize one of these outlaws as
native to his state.
“I'm Bland,” said the tall man, authoritatively. “Who're you and what're
you doing here?”
Duane looked at Bland as he had at the others. This outlaw chief
appeared to be reasonable, if he was not courteous. Duane told his story
again, this time a little more in detail.
“I believe you,” replied Bland, at once. “Think I know when a fellow is
lying.”
“I reckon you're on the right trail,” put in Euchre. “Thet about Luke
wantin' his boots took off--thet satisfies me. Luke hed a mortal dread
of dyin' with his boots on.”
At this sally the chief and his men laughed.
“You said Duane--Buck Duane?” queried Bland. “Are you a son of that
Duane who was a gunfighter some years back?”
“Yes,” replied Duane.
“Never met him, and glad I didn't,” said Bland, with a grim humor. “So
you got in trouble and had to go on the dodge? What kind of trouble?”
“Had a fight.”
“Fight? Do you mean gun-play?” questioned Bland. He seemed eager,
curious, speculative.
“Yes. It ended in gun-play, I'm sorry to say,” answered Duane.
“Guess I needn't ask the son of Duane if he killed his man,” went on
Bland, ironically. “Well, I'm sorry you bucked against trouble in my
camp. But as it is, I guess you'd be wise to make yourself scarce.”
“Do you mean I'm politely told to move on?” asked Duane, quietly.
“Not exactly that,” said Bland, as if irritated. “If this isn't a free
place there isn't one on earth. Every man is equal here. Do you want to
join my band?”
“No, I don't.”
“Well, even if you did I imagine that wouldn't stop Bosomer. He's an
ugly fellow. He's one of the few gunmen I've met who wants to kill
somebody all the time. Most men like that are fourflushes. But Bosomer
is all one color, and that's red. Merely for your own sake I advise you
to hit the trail.”
“Thanks. But if that's all I'll stay,” returned Duane. Even as he spoke
he felt that he did not know himself.
Bosomer appeared at the door, pushing men who tried to detain him, and
as he jumped clear of a last reaching hand he uttered a snarl like an
angry dog. Manifestly the short while he had spent inside the saloon had
been devoted to drinking and talking himself into a frenzy. Bland and
the other outlaws quickly moved aside, letting Duane stand alone. When
Bosomer saw Duane standing motionless and watchful a strange change
passed quickly in him. He halted in his tracks, and as he did that the
men who had followed him out piled over one another in their hurry to
get to one side.
Duane saw all the swift action, felt intuitively the meaning of it, and
in Bosomer's sudden change of front. The outlaw was keen, and he had
expected a shrinking, or at least a frightened antagonist. Duane knew he
was neither. He felt like iron, and yet thrill after thrill ran through
him. It was almost as if this situation had been one long familiar to
him. Somehow he understood this yellow-eyed Bosomer. The outlaw had
come out to kill him. And now, though somewhat checked by the stand of
a stranger, he still meant to kill. Like so many desperadoes of his
ilk, he was victim of a passion to kill for the sake of killing. Duane
divined that no sudden animosity was driving Bosomer. It was just his
chance. In that moment murder would have been joy to him. Very likely
he had forgotten his pretext for a quarrel. Very probably his faculties
were absorbed in conjecture as to Duane's possibilities.
But he did not speak a word. He remained motionless for a long moment,
his eyes pale and steady, his right hand like a claw.
That instant gave Duane a power to read in his enemy's eyes the thought
that preceded action. But Duane did not want to kill another man.
Still he would have to fight, and he decided to cripple Bosomer. When
Bosomer's hand moved Duane's gun was spouting fire. Two shots only--both
from Duane's gun--and the outlaw fell with his right arm shattered.
Bosomer cursed harshly and floundered in the dust, trying to reach the
gun with his left hand. His comrades, however, seeing that Duane would
not kill unless forced, closed in upon Bosomer and prevented any further
madness on his part.